Comedown
by les-etoilles
Summary: Your body aches; you crave. You hate this part. April-centric.


Disclaimer: I don't own; I rent.

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You hate the comedown.

The way your body slowly collapses in on itself as the depression sets in, and you begin to feel like a pile of melting jello.

You hate the slow awakening of your senses – sight, smell, taste, touch, sound. Everything is less bright, less brilliant. The world is harsh, cold, and cruel now, instead of the soaring, vibrant realm you inhabited only moments ago.

You hate reality, because in reality you are just a junkie with no future, living with your wanna-be rock star boyfriend and his friends in shady Alphabet City, where you can buy a can of grape soda and a little baggie full of sweet heroin from the same counter, because you fled to the city as soon as you could escape, leaving your room – decorated with flowers and stuffed teddy bears – clean and tidy without so much as a note.

Because you wanted to be free.

Because you wanted to fly.

You love to fly; you love to soar above the stars with Roger, the junk rushing through your veins like a fire, flushing your skin, tingling your senses, making you breathless.

You feel alive, and at the same time, you feel numb.

You're numb to the pain and suffering of the world in which you live. You're a goddess, living in your palace high above everyone, with your very own Rock God by your side. Together, you own the whole world, and the world loves you.

You are an eagle.

But eventually, the eagle has to nest, and the high begins to fade, bringing you down once again to the level of the mortals.

Your body aches.

You crave.

You ask Roger for more, but he's broke.

You both are.

Roger likes to sleep the last of his high away; it helps, he says, but you don't believe him. As he stumbles into his room, guitar permanently attached to his hand, you curl up into the couch, squeezing into the corner with your knees drawn up – a little ball of sorrow.

You shake.

You hate this part.

You pop a few Vicodin to help ease the transition.

It doesn't work. It never does.

You whimper; you want to fly again. You debate leaving the loft to try to score some more. It doesn't matter that you have no money; The Man must have needs. But Roger would kill you, and you know that beyond the fights and tears and drugs, you love him, perhaps more than you've ever loved anyone.

And it scares you.

Fuck, it _terrifies_ you.

Because you are both so fucked up, how can it possibly last much longer? People like you don't have happy endings. There's too much drama – too much pain.

In the end, you'll just get hurt.

But you love to hurt, don't you?

It's a secret you won't admit to anyone, not even yourself.

You love the pain, the emotional wreck you become when you fight, and the damage you leave behind. Every time you argue, you wish he would hit you. You want the pain of his knuckles against your fragile jaw, of knowing you've just been abused by the one who has promised to never hurt you.

But Roger keeps that promise. He never hits you. The wall, yes – on several occasions, prompting Mark to furrow his eyebrows in worry from the doorway, but return from the hardware store an hour later with plaster – but never you.

Some days you try to push his buttons, to anger him so completely that not even the wall can satisfy his need to show physical wrath. You pick at his wounds, dig under his skin to reveal his most vulnerable parts. But more than hitting inanimate objects to show his irritation, Roger likes to run, and he leaves the room before you can have your way with him. You groan in frustration, burying your head in your hands, not knowing that Mark is standing behind you, watching.

He always watches.

But he never asks questions.

You wish he would.

You wish he would stick his nose into your business and ask if everything is all right. You wish he would ask if you're hurting.

But, you suspect, he already knows the answer.

Maybe Mark hates you for what you've done to his best friend. Before you came, things were probably happy and perfect.

You hate perfection, and you hope he does hate you, because you hate yourself, and because his hate would sting – and you love pain.

It's why you really moved to New York. You wanted to suffer, to be a _starving_ artist – to wonder how you will simultaneously feed yourself and pay your rent. You wanted to be the poster child for human suffering.

It's why you started the drugs. You knew you would get addicted.

You _wanted_ to get addicted.

Because you're self-destructive. You're a masochist.

And deep down inside, you love the comedown.

It's your favorite part.


End file.
